


Lines

by herbailiwick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:32:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2650469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>This is what a long distance relationship feels like, he now knows.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lines

This is what a long distance relationship feels like, he now knows. It feels like sitting in the passenger seat is just a little bit more pointless, although there's somehow finally a permanent parking spot to come back to. 

It feels like hours of songs he hates and the few minutes in between where Dean can't settle on a station and Sam gets to choose.

It feels like roadkill; shapeless, nameless, statistical.

It's a secret relationship on top of the distance.

Secret like when Dean gets drunk and talks about Mom and Sam can almost picture her. Secret like sneaking into the drive-in theater when Dean takes all the money and getting invited to sit in a car with an older couple who talk too much about missing their son, wondering what being missed in that way would even feel like.

Secret like buying a lotto ticket just in case the psychic powers work that way; they don't.

It's taboo, too, like _holy hell what are you doing_ taboo. It should be wrong to even touch, like the fact they kill things with a life and a culture for a living, like the heat as they drive in the summer, the cold in the winter. It should be as unutterable as questions about Mary, as questions of Dad's authority, as the fact that Sam wishes he was born in a different family.

It's worthwhile like sunrises and sunsets meant for two, like headlights in the night, like history with dings and scratches and touch-ups and a whole mess of trouble in the trunk only an expert could sort out. It's tried and true as the best investment, even though the adventure is new. Because Bobby's always been there, a constant like the car, someone who listens better than the wind and the mile markers and the trail of strangers, someone softer than a fall on the ice in an unfamiliar parking lot, someone sweeter than gravel.

Old like a legend, round like a ring of salt, understanding like a bartender, like a civilian who has seen enough to know a soldier by sight, like a better father than his own would have been. 

His heart beats hard like he's being chased as he mutters it, says, "You're like a constant in my life, you know?" He gets shushed. Fingers comb through his hair like they have ever since he was young, ever since it meant something entirely different. 

"Someone had to be," the man finally says, and Sam nuzzles further into the embrace. No, Dean wouldn't understand. He never needed a constant, or someone to listen, or someone to understand. He never needed roadkill. Sam's not as strong as Dean, as self-sufficient.

"Can I call you?"

"I kind of expect you to," he points out.

"Oh. No." Sam sighs. The words are too new.

"I know what you mean. Sure. I'm not a great conversationalist." All in the same breath, the same random train of thought, a train Sam would have readily waited for if he'd been asked to.

"Yeah, but you listen well," Sam says. "You listen  _at all_."

As warm as the Impala's hood, as crafty as Dean at a pool table, as freeing as the windows being lowered or easy access to the internet.

The distance stretches, asphalt and cheap, gritty wallpaper, laundromats and stale coffee and diner grease. 

The secret remains intact, like a sturdy pair of boots built to last, like the sun or the moon, like Sam and Dean.

The taboo fails to inspire, like motel room color palettes, like Dean's idea of romance, like Dean's idea of  _living_ , like hunting itself, like the disgust of the John Winchester inside Sam's head.

"Until next time," Sam murmurs with a kiss to Bobby's temple under the pretense of having forgotten the wallet he deliberately left on the kitchen table.

"Call me," Bobby says. "I know you will."

Bobby is a gas station in the middle of nowhere. Bobby is respectable, like dining and accommodations occasionally are. Bobby is, very importantly, not a stranger, and also not Dean.

Bobby is across the country from him before Sam knows it. But Bobby is also on speed dial. 

This is what a long distance relationship feels like.


End file.
